You want a train ticket? It’s yours, alright. You wanna get out of here? Done. I’ll lie for you. I’ll sneak you out. Hell, I’ll even drive you. If you want more, if you want to make sure whatever’s happening here stops, then I can help you with that, too.

I’ve always loved writing since I was little. I love writing
stories, articles, poems, but I never kept a diary because I think it made me
feel obligated to write everyday. Every time I started one, the entry would
turn out something like “went to the market today. I really wanted to buy a toy
but just did yesterday. Anyway, I think Brittany lied to me about her dating
Jem”

Then I started high school and, well, let’s just say I
needed to get things out somewhere before I become my own version of 2007’s
Britney Spears. A journal is actually a really great getaway from all the
sickening routines. You get to be entirely you, and nobody will say anything
about what you think and what you write. Not to mention it’s very therapeutic and helps keeping your
sanity.

I know a lot of people who want to start a journal but are
not sure what to write or where to start from. So that is why, ladies and
gents, I’m here to give you a lil help on that matter.

1.
Be As Blunt, Angry, or Happy

You’re fighting with your friend and you
think they’re stupid? Jot that down. You think your math score doesn’t do you
justice? Write about it. You got a new set of Crayolas and are very excited
about it? Write it down too. It does feel a little weird at first, I did feel
that too, but trust me you would feel a lot better and relieved after you
finish an entry. Remember, nobody’s going to read it so if you didn’t have the
chance to punch that one friend in the face, do it now. Mentally. Better to
stay out of jail, right?

2.
No Schedule Needed

You don’t need to write an entry every
single day. I never do mine regularly, but I try to keep it at least once or
twice a week to make sure that I don’t leave it way behind. However, DO NOT go
through 2 weeks without a single entry, the longer you don’t write, the more
you feel like you can go miles without touching it. This would beat the purpose
of starting a journal in the first place.

3.
Get Creative

You can be as creative and wild in your
journal! Find some inspiration from youtube, tumblr, or pinterest and splatter
some paints. It doesn’t have to be neat or have a deep meaning, just do some
art when you DO feel inspired. You can also attach some memories like amusement
park tickets, postcards, stamps, and many other things.

4.
It’s Not Meant to be “Photogenic”

Or you can make it as photogenic as you
want it to be. Just remember that not every single page has to be colorful, has
lots of drawings and Shakespeare’s poems on it. You see these journaling
accounts all around tumblr and think “how do they make it so artsy?”. I’m
pretty sure even those accounts have silly drawings and memes somewhere between
those pages. When you start a journal, some pages might only have words upon
words on white paper, some pages might have unfinished sketches. Don’t (just) do it
for aesthetic. Do it because it takes off your negative vibes and brings
positivity toward you.

5. Just Start.

Seriously. The more you procrastinate, the more you’ll think ‘nah I don’t need it anyway’. The ultimate guide is to start somewhere.

Whatever you write down, they don’t have to
be interesting or mind-blowing. Some people think their lives are boring and not
journal-worthy. Well, I write about Starbucks’ caramel frappe and trips to the
nearest market while all these people are writing about their freaking road
trip to another planet. No lives are boring. There will always be something to
write about. If you’re still having a writer’s block, then I gotcha. Here’s a
list of things you can put on your journal:

-Dream you had last night-Letters to somebody-A letter to your younger/future self- Songs you need to download- Answer your own questions- 13 reasons why. Ex: Why you should get over that
one ex, Why you love your best friend, etc- Things you’ve learned today ( I do this a lot.
It’s a great way to self-exam)- Favorite things-Things you regret buying (also a great
self-examination)- New words + definitions- Morning/midnight ramblings-
Reviews of books/movies- What would you be doing in 10 years- Write about your Hogwarts’ house or MBTI
personality

SoooThis might not be a huge help, but I love sharing things and I find journaling to be very helpful for a lot of things.

is the kitchen carpeted? I’ve looked at this a lot and honestly can’t tell

pretty chill as far as bedrooms go and by far the most normal room in the house

bathroom looks ok

I know this has been super normal outside the 1960s/70s interior design but stick with me

big long room with glaring pink carpet. that’s not a mirror on the “back wall” like I thought at first, this room just goes. where one the house is this, I thought to myself

my lord, that’s a garage door. they converted their garage and remodeled but KEPT THE DOOR to open to the outside from their sitting/entertainment room

wut

that’s not all, let’s check out the basement

good lord. just take a moment to take it all in. decor again not updated since 1970 (this house was originally built in 1969). the teddy bears on the couch. that weird game in the foreground which I’ve never seen before. sombreros on the walls the FULLY stocked bar. like so fully stocked…

When
they’ve got him in the interrogation room every officer seems to have
the same question; was it worth it? With all that happened, with how
it turned out, the years of drunken revelry, the constant media
attention, the heists, the hubris, the way it ended in a bloodbath
the likes of which Los Santos has never seen. This is your legacy
Ramsey, was it worth it?

They
ask like his answer means anything, ask like they even care what he
thinks, ask like they don’t think he feels anything at all. They ask
like it wasn’t his plans that brought him here. Like it wasn’t his
plans the led to six body bags and a single pair of handcuffs, a room
full of tactless officers and a kingpin with no one left to call
crew. They ask like can’t help themselves from asking.

Was
it worth it?

There’s
never a serious discussion, no big heart to heart, but there’s no
escaping the fact that the Fake’s all know they are dying in slow
motion. More or less signed their own death certificate’s years ago,
living on stolen time, and sooner or later they’ll find themselves in
the ground.

They
took Los Santos by storm and defended it with their lives. With each
others lives. Have sacrificed themselves and the ones they love to a
city that takes no prisoners. They fought hard for their crown, and
kept on fighting every single day to succeed, to profit, to reaffirm
themselves as the city’s biggest bads. They knew that they would only be unstoppable until they aren’t. Until the day they fall, and
eventually they must fall.

Even
after all the years of action, all the blood, sweat and tears they’ve
poured into this empire, everyone knows there is no such thing as
retirement for the Fake AH Crew; for all they’ve already trained
their own successors the frontrunners of the reigning crew in Los
Santos will never be allowed to simply step down and move aside when
their time is over. Between old enemies and constant rivals, members
of law enforcement and anyone simply looking to boost their own
reputation, there are countless numbers who would hunt them to the
ends of the earth. Everyone knows, one way or another, the FAHC is
going out bloody.

And
by god, did they go out bloody.

The
Fake’s die halfway through the afternoon on a Tuesday. What a fucking
inconsequential day right? They were owed a Friday at the very least,
were meant to go out past midnight, meant to go out in a blaze of
glory. They were meant to go out all together. They weren’t meant to
go out at all.

The
wheels fell off weeks before, a series of questionable jobs and
public fights, a level of disorder totally out of line with the
crew’s trademark cohesion. Rumour has it they were rife with
in-fighting. Rumour has it after all this time the cracks were
finally showing. Its easy, afterwards, to read into the events that
came before, to manufacture clues, to swear the writing was on the
wall for anyone to see. In reality no one saw it coming. In reality
the whole damn city was taken by surprise.

Maybe
they bit off more than they could chew, maybe they were distracted,
out of sync, or maybe it was just the inevitable finally catching up
with them but in the end the Fake’s wind up in a firefight they
aren’t winning. After endless years of near misses and close calls,
of lucky runs and brilliant timing, after thousands of impossible
victories, the FAHC finally lost.

To
lose like this, picked off one by one, powerless to save themselves,
to save each other, must have been their worst nightmare. With every
body on the ground those left only grew more furious, more reckless,
lose whatever feeble grasp on self-preservation they ever had,
throwing away any possibility of retreat in favour of retribution. It
wasn’t enough.

In
the end the only one left breathing on either side is Ramsey. The
scene finally gone still, silent, the echoes of screams and gunfire
fading away into a shivery stunned kind of shock. They say Ramsey’d
fallen to his knees amongst the grime, iconic suit near
indistinguishable under all the dirt and ash, the blood of men and
women who thought they’d live forever. He kneels there in silence
while sirens grow ever louder, makes no move to flee, doesn’t even
look up from bodies as cars scream to a stop around him.

The
messed up thing, the really fucked up part? They say Ramsey was
laughing by the time the police got there. Say he stood and brushed
himself off, surrounded by the bodies of those he claimed family,
drenched sickly red while his empire lay in ruins, and laughed. And
god doesn’t that confirm what everyone’s always thought, doesn’t that
just prove he always was a monster. Never cared for anyone, for
anything, not really. People used to say the one thing Geoff loved
was his crew but it seems Ramsey’s cold-blooded ruthlessness won out
in the end.

In
the fallout of a travesty, of a victory, of an unexpected bloodbath,
in a stark grey room faced with a distressingly apathetic villain, in
circumstances none could have predicted, all the detectives seem
capable of asking is if it was worth it in the end. They ask and ask
and Ramsey’s answer never changes, his cold smirk never fades, so
calm and unconcerned they catch him glancing at the clock, as though
he’s bored. As though even now he’s got somewhere better to be. And
still, full of horrified disbelief, they have to ask.

Was
it worth it? Yes. Was it worth it? Always. Knowing what you know now, knowing how it ends, how they all go down
for you, would you do it all again? Every
damn time. Surely you have regrets, you had to know one day it would end like
this.

Oh
baby, who says it’s over?

It
comes together as a joke more than anything, the cumulation of too
many late nights followed by too many bad movies. Their last job was
tense, a heist with months of preparations and so much on the line,
and while they’ve certainly celebrated their victory like royalty
they didn’t come away unscathed. The injuries, numerous though mostly
minor, serve to once again remind them all how lucky they’ve been so
far. How most don’t make it nearly this many years without tragedy,
couldn’t be in the game this long, let alone running the game
this long without signing up for devastation.
How losing a member, to outright death or crippling injury, is
without a doubt only a matter of time at this point. How such a loss
will be so much worse in this ridiculously close-knit crew than any
they’d experienced before.

Sobering
thoughts, combined with the difficulties of winding down after
endless weeks of stress eventually leads to the discussion they
never have, the question of what else they could be doing with their
lives, what choices brought them here, what they would do if they
could just step out, sign off, retire. It’s not that they’re bored of
this life they’ve built – how could they be when the world is their
oyster – but there’s no denying the fact that after all this time
terrorising Los Santos doesn’t quite thrill them like it used to.

If
you’d asked any of them ten, five, hell even two years ago they’d
have scoffed at the idea of ever retiring, would have sworn up and
down that they wanted to go down in flames, to end with a
bang, and at the time they meant it. At the time it was true. It
still is, in a way, they’ll probably always see something dreadfully
appealing in going out on top, but with every passing year it’s
harder and harder to look at a room full of people they love and
consider playing a role in their deaths. Every time they get hurt it
takes a little longer to heal, the old aches and pains are becoming
more prominent, and their ever growing patchwork of scars have
started looking less badge of honour than they do morbid countdown.
Obviously they’ve still got it, still in their prime enough to keep
their crown, but between age and gratuitous injury, time is creeping
up on them all.

The
Fake’s used to joke about the end, said whoever lasted longest won,
got to make off with the fortunes, live like a king, but that reality
isn’t quite so funny anymore. The idea of surviving, of being left
behind with nothing but cold hard cash and heyday memories is enough
to make them physically ill. So maybe retiring doesn’t seem quite so
unappealing anymore.

Maybe
a passing comment way too late at night, after far too much mixing of
alcohol and pain meds, in the spirit of some dumb con movie they’d
all been heckling, was enough to plant an idea. A ridiculous,
unrealistic, completely unattainable idea, but still an idea
nonetheless. They’re all a bit hung up on it, still joking, still
assuring one another that they aren’t serious, but still bringing it
up all the same, running through all the possibilities.

It
would take far more than simply disappearing; they have too much
wealth and notoriety, have far too many enemies, the world is simply
too easy a place to comb through these days. People, at least the
vast majority of people, would have to be convinced not to come
looking. Convinced there was nothing to look for, nothing to track,
would have to think the absent members of the Fake AH Crew were in
the one place no one could ever reach them.

There
are ways, of course, to feign death. For those with the right
contacts, with endless money and enough resources, there are ways to
trick the body into something close enough to pass, at least for a
time. But even then it’s not so simple; there must be witnesses,
there must be evidence, crook and cop alike must be sure. Of course
with a public death comes increased risk- it wouldn’t do to go so far
in their act that appearances became reality, to go to such lengths
to imitate death only to wind up that way regardless. Somehow,
someone’s going to have to play guardian, prevent anyone’s corpse
from catching a stray bullet to the brain, or jerking back to life
too late with guts already laid out on an autopsy table. Someone has
to be ready to whisk them all away, and who do any of them trust more
than the man they’ve been following all these years. The boss they’d
die for. The boss they will die for.

They
don’t talk about it, because no one wants to admit it might be
happening, no one wants to burst the bubble, to invite reality to
rush in and crush the unbelievable thought that the Fake’s might get
a happy ending, but at some point they stop laughing. At some point
they each quietly start getting all their ducks in a row, using their
free time to organise their affairs.

No
one questions the way Geoff and Jack have started having day-long
meetings with the support crew in-between jobs, the way Lindsay’s
spending far more of her time recruiting than ever before, the way
Gavin’s taking calls at all hours of the day, rarely in english,
clearly haggling over something. They don’t wonder why all their
money is getting moved around, why Ryan and Michael are busy
collecting all outstanding debts while Jeremy and Ray are plotting
the layout of the police station, the morgue.

It’s
all happening on the down low, all behind business as usual, but
eventually, after nearly a year of quiet organisation, they are just
about ready to disappear. All that’s left is the bang, the flashy
smoke and mirrors, the hook to stop anyone coming after them, anyone
even thinking to track them down. One final step, one last decision
to make, a choice they must commit to as one or not at all. All
they’ve got left to do is die.

Over
the years the Fake AH Crew has grown exponentially but the original
elements have never drifted apart, never gone looking for something
else or turned on one another. The crew has flourished, become a full
blown empire, but nothing can touch the unity of the innermost
members, as strong now as it have ever been. For all their loyal
familiarity was mocked back in the day, for all their closeness was
seen as a weakness, after all these years it seems only death itself
will seperate them now. If they had the chance to evade their own
mortality one last time, to get out, to be free, would they make the
leap?

The
Fake’s die halfway through the afternoon on a Tuesday. Pattillo, the
Vagabond, Mogar and the Golden Boy, Little J and Brownman, but not
the boss. Well not on paper anyway – any who knew them must know
Ramsey’d never recover from the loss. Any who didn’t just know the
LSPD took seven bodies away that day and none of them ever came back.
It’s not a stretch to assume Ramsey’s survival was a rumour. To
believe it wishful thinking, to say he died at the scene or died at
the station, delayed injury or the cops cleaning up the last loose
thread of the group who’d made their lives living hell for years.

There’s
paperwork out there, somewhere, claiming a different story. A report
that barely makes a lick of sense, the sworn record that a kingpin
arrived in chains and left with corpses, slipped out of his cell like
he was never there, without a hint as to how he got free. He
disappeared like smoke, not a trace left behind, and none of the
seven alive or dead ever resurfaced. The story is embarrassing,
inexplicable, and it reflects badly enough on the LSPD that it is
quickly buried.

Even
if it hadn’t been there are few who would believe it. Few who could
believe for even a moment that Ramsey could walk free and not be with
the last of his crew, that he would let another run his empire, run
his city, if he was in any way capable of preventing it. No, however
it went down Ramsey did not survive. It’s fitting, really. No one can
live forever and the OG Fake’s were certainty pushing their luck, had
been pushing it for years; a crew that close should go out together.

The
Fall of the Fake AH Crew isn’t much of a fall, in the end. The
seemingly inevitable power vacuum one would expect following the
death of the group who’d been running the city for endless years
never comes. It shouldn’t be possible but even after the most
devastating loss imaginable the the FAHC isn’t toppled from their
throne. They restructure almost overnight; many of the oldest,
original members of the support crew bow out, disappear on the wind
without a trace, but there are more than enough left behind to fill
their shoes. It’s almost perfect, almost unbelievable, some of
support shuffling into the spotlight while still more unknown faces
are revealed to boost their ranks. Their ability to keep their
enemies at bay during the turmoil is impressive enough, but it’s the
absence of internal conflicts that is truely boggling; there are no
betrayals or executions, no public power plays or jealous feuds,
somehow the city’s most scrutinised gang managed to completely
restructure after the loss of not just their leader but all their key
members without a single hitch. Almost like they were ready, like it
was planned.

If
the Fake’s had the chance to stay together, to start over somewhere
else, stop waiting for the day one of them inevitably doesn’t make it
home, but in return they had to step away from the action, give up
everything they’d built, hand if off to legacy and fade out into
legend, would it be worth it?

Apparently,
yes. For all of them, from the moment the possibility arises,
throughout every conversation, every debate and consideration, with
everything they will lose, with everything they stand to gain, every
goddamn time without fail, yes.

Somewhere
out there, worlds away from Los Santos, a man sits on a private
beach. He isn’t armed with anything more than a beer, there are no
weapons, he simply sits upon the sand enjoying the breeze. There’s a
woman to his right, sunbathing, a man to his left doing the same;
golden tans make their startling number of scars stand out in stark
relief but the heat of the sun does wonders for stubborn pains. At
the shoreline old friends are knocking shoulders, bumping each other
nearer and nearer to the water, not quite rough-housing like little
boys but they’re getting close, voices rising on the wind.

The
single house behind them is huge and noisy, full of music and
chatter, full of monsters and overgrown children, the most loyal
humans the man has ever had the honour of knowing. In a brief moment
of silence sound from the television drifts down to the beach, an
American news anchor reporting the latest infraction of some criminal
organisation in a far away city; the house cheers and kicks back into
a merry roar. Down by the water there is a betrayal, a splash and
screeching protest as one winds up in the waves against his will. Safe on the sand, without a trouble in the world, the
man laughs.

Ok, but do you know what’d save the FO4 story from a forced heterosexual relationship, a possibly unwanted child in your characters life, and that whole “I’m just taking over a preexisting character, up until now I’ve not been in control of my characters story” feeling?

You are Nate and Nora’s neighbor, also chosen to go into 111, a childhood friend of one of them, and Shaun’s godparent. (This doesn’t even have to enforce a religious aspect on your character, only on Nate and Nora and it’s not their story anymore)

You start off at home, alone, with no weird gendered career backstory items in sight. You talk to the Vault Guy. Then you head over to your BFF’s house for dinner, so we learn about them and why you should care. You get to meet Codsworth who clearly considers you one of the family (now you two have a decent dynamic - both “family members” who aren’t really family members). Your bff gives you a present (it’s a Holotape for you to cry about later when you get unfrozen, with them thanking you for being such a great friend and godparent) when the broadcast goes out on TV.

Nate and Nora die in the Vault (either due to Kellogg or the Cryopod malfunction that kills everyone else), or maybe one of them (whoever wasn’t your childhood bff) doesn’t make it to the Vault in time. You get to see Kellog because ALL the cryopods have to de-freeze when they open up the one to get Shaun out of. Add a bit of story wrangling as to why your pod didn’t fail, maybe it was the last one to cut life support as the generators die and the pods are set to open automatically after 200 years.

So you are now on a quest to save your godson, who you are now official guardian of.

THERE. No more pre-established character mess you have to retcon with headcanons. Very little change in the main story arc. Add as much or as little “Family doesn’t always have to mean related by blood” mush as you wish.

The first time you called him “Glaio,” he didn’t really think too much on it. You missed a sound – it happens. Sometimes people speak too fast and they leave out sounds. It happens. The others didn’t say anything, either – well, Ignis had given you a strange look, but remained silent beyond that.

The second time you called him “Glaio,” he gave you a questioning look. You were unfazed by it, continuing the rest of your sentence without falter. He let it slide, but kept it in the back of his mind so he could ask you about it later.

The third time you called him “Glaio,” he did ask you about it. You dodged the question and steamrolled over his attempts to circle back around to the subject. After several more fruitless tries, he gave up with a sigh.

The fourth time you called him “Glaio,” he’d had enough.

“Why do you keep calling me that?” he asked you, his hand around your bicep and his eyes boring into yours, preventing you from escaping the subject.

Still, you tried. “Calling you what?” you replied, tilting your head to the side and fixing him with an innocent look.

“Glaio,” he said, exasperated, “You’ve been calling me that all day. It’s starting to bug me.”

“Ohhh.” You hummed, smiling at him. “You haven’t given me the D yet, so it only seemed fair.”

“I haven’t–oh.” Realization dawned on him in that moment. He stared down at you, watching your expression go from innocent to mischievous and a smirk pull at your lips. He laughed, wrapping his other arm around your waist and pulling you close. He leaned down, his lips ghosting over yours. “Well… I can fix that.”

words: 5k+rated: angst/fluffa/n: i just had this overwhelming urge to write a daniel fic, okay? don’t kill me. i still love jihoon, lol. also, i’m sorry for making sungwoon the bad guy in here, lmaoo also i didn’t proofread this since its midnight and im tired and i have class tomorrow so oops

warnings: inappropriate language, bullying(??)summary: The most cliche stories of all stories - falling in love with your best friend

You had grown
up with Kang Daniel since you both were babies. Your mother and his mother were
also best friends and just so happened to be pregnant at the same time with you
both, so they thought it would be a wonderful idea if the both of you became
best of friends as well. There were cons and pros of growing up with the boy,
though. He always teased you over the littlest of things and fought with you,
but at the end of the day, you knew you could always count on him.

You started to
notice a difference in Daniel when you both entered high school. He was no
longer the playful boy you used to know. He hung out with the older kids, did
more “grown up” things, and started
dating a lot. No doubt, he still hung out with you from time to time, but
things felt different and it hurt.

pretty sure by now that fics ruined published novels for me. not because they’re bad, but rather because the quality of some of them is so damn astounding that actual published authors just wind up letting me down